Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
ARCHIE
Iwasn’t panicking. Which, apparently, made me a sociopath according to three different group chats and at least one very dramatic voice memo from Jake. Not that he was the best source, considering his recent decisions.
Coop was spiraling, Bubba was still deep in the “denial and rage” stage—to be fair, this was a new one for me, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose it—, and Jake kept threatening to expose Sharon’s “true manipulative demonic essence” with all the tact of a blunt sledgehammer.
Demonic essence… the hyperbole appealed to me.
As for me?
I was drinking espresso and reading the latest Edge magazine that covered gaming trends, art, and engineering.
Jeremy brought it in exactly how I liked it—hot, strong, and with a couple of danishes on the side, because he knew how to soften a blow before it landed. Especially since he hadn’t brought me breakfast in my game room or bedroom since I turned twelve.
As it was, he’d set the tray down then waited until I looked up. With a sigh, I set the mug down and met his gaze. Unlike my feelings where my parents were concerned, I actually did give a shit about what Jeremy thought.
“You’ve created quite the scandal.” Disapproval threaded through the words.
I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t leak the videos.”
“No,” he agreed smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his perfectly ironed shirt. “But you’re in them. Shirtless. Smirking. Participating.”
“Sounds like summer.” It wasn’t defensive.
Much.
Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. That subtle, almost-British disapproval thing he did better than any headmaster or judge.
“I’ve seen you be reckless before,” he said. “But I’ve never seen you be stupid.”
That stung more than I wanted to admit. I leaned back on the sofa, fingers tapping against my knee. “It’ll blow over. It always does.”
Jeremy stepped closer, arms folded. “Eventually. But reputations don’t blow over, Archibald.”
Ouch. I am in the shit if he’s using my full name. Without even the affectionate mister in front of it.
“They calcify,” he continued. “They stick to you like mold. And while you may not care now, that name you’re dragging through the mud?
It’s going to be on every college application.
Every interview. Every article if you keep running with those boys like you’re trying to make TMZ’s underage party list.”
A muscle twitched in my jaw. “This isn’t new. I’ve done worse. You know it.”
Jeremy didn’t flinch. He just stared at me. Calm. Steady. Disappointed.
I hated that look. Especially on him.
Especially from him.
“That’s why it’s worse this time,” he said quietly. “Because you do know better. Because you’re not fourteen anymore. Because there are people connected to you now—people who don’t get the same kind of forgiveness.”
I frowned, gaze narrowing. “What people?”
“Miss Frankie,” he said, like the name was a slap I deserved.
I said nothing.
“She’s already in the blast radius of whatever this is,” Jeremy continued. “Her face might not be in the videos, but people talk. They assume. You don’t live in a bubble. You can’t burn your own house down without setting the neighborhood on fire.”
I looked away, jaw tight. I didn’t need him to tell me. I already knew. Even if the metaphor didn’t quite apply here, our house could burn to the ground and our neighbors would be able to watch from a safe distance while sipping wine.
Not that it excused anything.
Frankie hadn’t answered anyone’s texts. Not mine. Not Coop’s. Not Jake’s. Not even Bubba’s, and he’d resorted to sending her cat memes and gifs of sad pandas.
She’d gone dark. And with what dropped online? I didn’t blame her.
Still…
“I didn’t lie to her,” I said, voice low.
“No,” Jeremy agreed. “You just stood next to the liars and smiled.”
I didn’t flinch. It was a hard thing to resist. Because the liars weren’t the guys. The liars…
Silence stretched between us.
Eventually, he set two large envelopes down on the table beside me.
College admission packets. Early acceptances.
“You’ve always had charm, Mr. Archie. And you’ve always had cover.
But if you want to grow into the kind of man you pretend to be, you’ll have to start making better choices. Not cleaner ones. Wiser ones.”
He didn’t wait for me to respond. He never did when he knew I had nothing more to offer.
He walked away without another word, shoes silent on hardwood. And I sat there, still as stone, espresso going cold as I stared into the future—just, not entirely sure if it was a future I’d ever get to have.
By the time the guys’ messages came in again—more chaos, more desperation—I was already sifting through my files.
I didn’t keep things out of paranoia. I kept them out of principle. Evidence. Receipts. Things people forgot they said when the music was too loud and the drinks were too free.
Sharon had been smart. But not smart enough.
One particular video stood out. Late July. Bubba’s afterparty. The one he swore he had no memory of.
Sharon had taken a seat beside me on the patio couch, dressed like a cocktail ad and slurring like she thought it was cute.
She’d leaned in close, breath reeking of watermelon vodka, and said, “You know I could set you up with better girls, right? Like... ones who aren’t tragically in love with their own boyfriends? ”
I’d blinked at her, unimpressed. She’d giggled like we were sharing a secret. Then she’d touched my thigh and said, “Unless you want me instead.”
All of it on video.
All of it timestamped.
All of it before she posted the leaks.
She’d been playing Bubba. Playing all of us. But she made a mistake. Attacking us was one thing, but this kind of scandal wasn’t about us. The sad fact was all four of us would survive. Boys would be boys and all that other misogynistic bullshit.
However, the girls she skinned with that video?
They were going to suffer. The girl nowhere present in those videos?
She was going to get hurt too. I could tell myself all I wanted that the summer hadn’t been about Frankie.
I was eighty percent—fine, sixty-five percent certain that I hadn’t made any of those choices because Frankie wasn’t talking to us.
Didn’t mean she needed our actions rubbed in her face. No, Sharon had come after Frankie. That wasn’t a mistake she should ever have made with me.
Ever.
Me:
We need to meet.
Me:
Tonight.
Me:
I’m going to burn Sharon to the ground.
I hit send.
Then opened a new folder and labeled it: Insurance.
Maybe I couldn’t undo what we did. But I could make damn sure someone else paid the price.
Bubba’s message popped up like a fire alarm.
Bubba:
On my way. Fueling up with courage and nachos.
Jake followed it, less poetic, more violent.
Jake:
in the car. bringing a bat. not kidding.
Coop remained radio silent. The absence of his name felt heavy, like someone had cut the music mid-song.
I thumbed back a reply—short, sharp, efficient.
Me:
Be here in twenty. Stay calm-ish.
Then I headed downstairs via the back stairway which would let me out closer to the kitchen.
Jeremy was in the butler’s pantry that opened next to the stairs polishing a pair of shoes the way some people pray—methodical, focused, steady.
He looked up when I came into the doorway, set the brush down and gave me that look that usually translated as permission to be immature if I promised not to implode anything valuable.
“They’re coming?” he said.
“Bubba and Jake. Coop’s MIA.” I left it unsaid that Coop had been the one to make the worst of the footage. No need to add gasoline to a campfire that was already a four-alarm.
Jeremy nodded. “Make no sudden decisions or moves. No speeches. No stunts.”
“I’m a professional at stunts,” I said, because reflex.
He didn’t smile. “Then be a professional afterward.”
That got me. He always had a way of taking my sarcasm apart and leaving the parts in a neat little pile for me to sweep up later.
At that moment Muriel—my mother—glided into the foyer like she owned the light. Perfect hair, perfectly cut coat, the kind of shoes that made a statement without shouting. She never made a scene; she was the scene.
“Archibald,” she said, voice like dry champagne—cool, effervescent, a little dangerous if you stirred it too hard.
She had a couple of leather cases lined up by the door, and I noticed the way she moved toward them with an effortless economy.
There were more bags than she ever took for a standard weekend.
More than I’d seen since the summer before sophomore year when she left for Milan and came back closer to Christmas than my birthday.
“Where are you going?” I asked the question softer than I meant.
“Business,” she said, slipping a glove on with a single practiced motion.
“And I’m waiting on my driver. I told him to be prompt.
” She smiled the kind of smile that made everyone else feel like they’d skipped a beat in the choreography.
“There’s a dinner in Geneva. Some meetings in Zurich. I may not be back for a few days.”
It was a lot of days. The bags confirmed it.
“And you're leaving now?” I asked, because if I didn’t ask I’d never know whether to plan my own exodus.
“Yes.” She glanced at Jeremy the way someone checks the weather. “Jeremy, the house will be in your excellent hands.”
He inclined his head, deferential, but I could see the tiny shift in his shoulders—acknowledgement that he would also be the first responder when the neighborhood implosion started.
Muriel turned to me then. Up close, her perfume smelled expensive and reassuring. She reached up, gave my cheek a quick, polite kiss—no lingering affection, no maternal softness, more a seal of approval, like she was stamping some formality into place.
“Take care of yourself,” she said, not looking at me in the way a mother does but in the way a well-briefed executive returns a subordinate’s glance. “Phone on. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t,” I said, because the lie would buy me five minutes of internal peace.
She threw me a brief, assessing look that felt more like inventory than concern. “I expect you to handle things with discretion,” she added. “The family cannot be distracted.”
Jeremy had already moved to help with her bags, gentle as always. Muriel allowed him—no dramatics—and then she was out the door, gloved hand tucked into the crook of a chauffeur’s arm, silhouette impeccable against the dull morning.
I watched until the car was out of sight. The silence she left behind was a lot like her: polished, controlled, and entirely empty.
When I turned back inside, Jeremy was holding the foyer door open, shoes in a polite stack on his arm. He gave me that look again—less admonishing now, more like someone weighing what was coming next.
“I’ll set you up on the pool patio and bring lunch out at eleven-thirty if they are still here,” he said.
“Yep,” I answered. “Coop’s the wildcard.”
Jeremy’s mouth tightened. “You will handle it.” That wasn’t a suggestion. “Lead by example.”
I pocketed my hands, feeling the weight of his words and the echo of my mother’s leave-behind: more bags than usual, destination unclear, timing perfect. My mother’s departures were never messy. They were strategic exits. The note she left when she left was always a plan, not a goodbye.
Out back, the patio doors were open to the sunny morning with its humid air that said summer was not in the rearview mirror yet.
I stared at the pool, not quite focusing on the water or the pool robot that was steadily cleaning.
The low hum from the machine added to the occasional bird song and the faint drift of vehicle sounds from the road.
Then I pulled out my phone. Opened our last thread.
Frankie.
Still no response.
Unread. Or maybe just ignored.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard for a full minute before I started typing. Then deleted the whole thing. Tried again.
Me:
I know you're mad. You have every right to be.
Just... check in, okay?
Even if it's just one word.
I need to know you’re okay.
And if you’re not?
I’ll fix it. Whatever you need—I’ll do it.
Just say the word.
I stared at the screen, debating. Then hit send before I could stop myself.
The message dropped into the thread like a stone into deep water.
No response.
I didn’t expect one.
But still—
I waited.
One second.
Five.
Ten.
Nothing.
I locked the screen and shoved the phone back in my pocket.
Time to face the boys.
Time to try and hold the world together with duct tape and sarcasm while everything underneath kept shifting.
But if Frankie needed me?
I’d drop it all.
Even if it meant burning the rest of it down.